Room to Breathe
by Cheryl W
Summary: Dean just wants some room to breathe but finds his good looks are as much a trouble magnet as Sam’s ESP. No slash.
1. Chapter 1

Room to Breathe

By: Cheryl W.

Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural, Dean or Sam, nor am I making any profit from this story.

Summary: Dean just wants some room to breathe but finds his good looks are as much a trouble magnet as Sam's ESP. No slash.

Nearly a day after experiencing the Benders "brand" of hospitality, Sam and Dean knew they were lucky to be alive, blessed that they had each other to count on and ready to strangle one another.

Rummaging through their first aid kit for the fifth time, Sam angrily flicked the lid shut. "I can't believe you didn't tell me earlier that you used the last of the burn cream," his eyes accusingly rested on Dean, who lay on the other motel bed, his focus on the tv.

"What are you all bent out of shape for? Tomorrow we'll stop at a drug store and restock the kit," Dean off handedly soothed, never taking his eyes from the televised extreme sports event live from Colorado.

His brother's reply notched up Sam's anger. "Tomorrow! What about tonight, Dean!"

Having earned his younger brother's anger, Dean turned his green gaze to Sam, who sat Indian style on the opposite bed, the majority of the contents of the first aid kit methodically organized around him. "What! You think they're going to do a room check tonight and write up anyone not having a tube of burn cream!"

If Dean hadn't looked abused to within an inch of his life, Sam feared he would have cleared the distance between them and landed a punch. Without that avenue of release, Sam, with a growl, viciously swept the items off his bed, and surged off the bed purposefully away from Dean. Plastic bottles flipped as they impacted with floor, and bandages fluttered in a wide radius, a few landing on Dean and his bed.

"Sam, what the hell!" Dean exclaimed, his eyes demanding an explanation, as he threw the bandage packet that had landed on his chest to the floor and began to sit up.

Whatever anger had latched onto Sam disappeared as he watched his brother struggle to sit up. Dean's features tightened in agony as he turned to his side, used his legs to maneuver backwards until he could brace his back against the head board, his left hand pressed tightly against his ribs to try and control the pain emanating from his shoulder.

"Dean, stop," Sam breathed as a plea. "Just stop trying to pretend that you're alright, that the damn burn doesn't hurt like hell."

"I've had worse," Dean smiled cockily but it didn't have the desired effect on the heavily bruised and cut features of his all too pale face.

"And that's suppose to make me feel better!" Coming to Dean's side and claiming a seat on the bed, Sam uncharacteristically initiated the close contact his brother was famous for, his eyes pinning Dean. Reaching his hand toward Dean, intending to check the burn, Sam found his wrist imprisoned in Dean's strong grip.

"It's fine, Sam," Dean nearly growled, pushing his brother's hand down before he released his hold.

"No, no it's not," Sam stated, his eyes shimmering and his voice unsteady.

Dean flinched, they were the words Lyla's mother had said when her daughter had politely said that it was Ok that she had cancer. The words had a thousand underlying meanings all underscored by love…just like he knew Sam's did right now. Willing only to reply to the obvious meaning, Dean sighed dramatically, "Fine, go get some burn cream but none of that awful smelling stuff, and don't let my car doors get dinged up in the convenience store parking lot by some drunk intent on getting his next fix."

A somewhat forced smile turned up Sam's lips, "I'll make sure nothing happens to your precious car." Standing, he looked down to Dean, his worry palpable. "You need anything else?"

"M&Ms, the peanut kind," Dean ordered.

"I meant medicinally," Sam retorted, turning around, snatching the keys from the table and crossing to the door.

"Hey, chocolate is medicinal," Dean called to him.

Stopping at the door, Sam turned around to face Dean, his mouth open but Dean cut him off.

"And stay out of trouble this time," Dean warned, worry evident in his eyes.

"I will if you will," Sam challenged, heading out of the door. The door was almost latched shut before he stuck his head in again, "You're gonna stay here, right? No running over to the bar next door the second I pull out of the parking lot."

Dean gave no indication that his brother had practically read his mind. "Me? Go to a bar? Have a few beers? Enjoy myself? It never crossed my mind."

"Dean," Sam drawled in warning.

Letting his pain show through his barriers, Dean raised his right hand to his left shoulder, pressing on the burn to ease some of the pain radiating from it. "Relax, Sammy. I'm not up to pool hustling tonight." Seeing the concerned look that overshadowed Sam's features, Dean once again masked his pain and hammed up his next words, "Gee I could really use some non stinky burn cream right about now."

"Jerk," Sam shot back, a true smile on his face as he shut the door behind him before Dean could make his standard reply.

Letting his body recuperate from the trauma it had sustained, that was the smart move. Staying in the room, that would be wise. Keeping away from crowds that could jostle his shoulder, that was foresight. Not drinking when he had a headache from some rednecks slamming his head into a few walls and then hitting him with a frying pan, a headache that threatened to bring him to your knees, now that was just common sense.

Dean Winchester, briefly raising his shot glass in a silent toast to all the ways he was defying logic, allowed the liquor to scorch a path down his throat. Something in him eased as the alcohol hit his blood stream and nearly empty stomach. Nodding to the bartender, he watched the amber liquid fill another glass. The bar was crowded, people congregated in all the sections of the bar. It was a perfect setting to play pool but in that aspect he had not lied to his brother, he wasn't up to hustling tonight.

Pointedly he had picked the end of the bar, the two seats on either side of him empty. He wasn't looking for company, even the bartender's necessary presence was an annoyance he could barely tolerate. He felt guilty, wanting to be alone, needing to be alone after having almost lost Sam. He knew he should want to stick by Sam like glue, to be reassured that he was OK by watching him, seeing that he was as unhurt as he claimed. But the trek back from the Bender's house, the ride in the car, the afternoon in the room, it was like his senses were on overload. He loved his brother, was so relieved to get him back and was choking on the air between them.

Lighting a cigarette from the pack he had bought when he entered the bar, he took a deep drag, letting the nicotine do more of the work that the alcohol had started. Setting the cigarette in an ashtray, he gingerly rubbed his throbbing forehead with his right hand, closing his eyes against the light, dulled as it was by smoke, that still managed to pierce into his skull.

"Two tequilas," a female voice said from his right side, before an arm brushed against his own.

Opening his eyes, he saw a brunette woman leaning over the bar, her assets barely concealed with her pose and her low cut blouse. When her heavily eye shadowed brown eyes intently focused on him, surprise registered in their depths as the woman saw the damage to Dean's face.

"Oh my gosh, what happened to you?" the woman drawled, her hand reaching for the cut on his forehead.

Snagging her hand mid air, Dean offered up only his 10 watt smile, "Ex-wife, took all my money in court too," knowing that it was a sure way of losing any unwanted female attention. Charm had its uses, as did his good looks, but both could also be a royal pain.

"Oh," the woman replied as Dean released her hand from his gentle hold, "we're not all like that. Women, I mean," the woman reassured and claimed a seat beside Dean.

Silently Dean cursed. He didn't make brooding a habit and had unwittingly forgotten that women found a man down on his luck very appealing, something broken that they could fix.

Sam's hands were clenched into fists as he stalked across the parking lot that divided the motel from the bar. Returning to an empty room that bore a note on his bed that read, "So I'll be one beer ahead of you. Get over it," had inflamed his earlier anger to new levels.

"Stupid moron!" he growled, his steps eating up the distance. "Drinking with a freakin' head injury, that's real smart, Dean. I am going to kick your butt all the way back to the room!" Then he was plowing through the bar door, his anger muffling the sounds of the bar as he stood at the entrance, his eyes sweeping the dense crowd for his brother.

Finding his quarry at the bar, Sam remained rooted to the floor boards in surprise. He had come here, angry as hell, knowing he would find Dean drinking but it was a gut punch to see Dean downing, not a beer, but a shot, one of three if the number of empty shot glass in front of him was any indication. A gasp nearly escaped Sam as he watched his brother nonchalantly put a cigarette into his mouth, inhale and let the smoke escape his mouth like it was habitual.

Cursing lowly, Sam began to make his way through the crowd gathered at the door. His eyes never left his brother as he made small progress, fascinated and concerned and angry at his brother's uncharacteristic actions. He barely registered the woman leaning over close to Dean, women were always throwing themselves at his brother, nothing new there. But as he shoved past three very drunk guys arguing about who dated whose sister first, Sam saw a man that looked like a linebacker for the Dolphins clamp a meaty hand down on Dean's left shoulder, the shoulder bearing the raw poker burn.

"No!" Sam bit out in protest and fury as he ruthlessly pushed his way through a circle of five young women, intent on getting the man away from his brother.

Agony blasted through Dean's alcohol haze like a blow torch when the linebacker's hand fell heavily down on his left shoulder. Gasping in pain, Dean pitched forward against the bar.

Thinking his own strength had garnered the response in the smaller man, the would be linebacker squeezed harder on the shoulder under his hand. Leaning toward Dean's ear, he snarled, "That's my girl you're talking to, jerk."

Feeling as if consciousness would abandon him if the pressure wasn't removed from his shoulder immediately, Dean, using a stronger tactic than he usually employed in a bar fight, sailed his right hand over his left shoulder, plowing his palm into the Neanderthal's jaw. Weakened not only by the agony the man had already delivered but also by the trauma of his treatment at the hands of the Benders, Dean's strike did not drop the linebacker but it did however cause the man to stumble back, thereby loosing his hold on his prey's shoulder.

Forcing his sluggish body to turn around to fend off the next strike, Dean unknowingly leaned right into his opponent's right cross. The blow knocked him from the stool and he impacted harshly with the sticky beer covered floor. Knowing another attack was imminent, Dean's eyes shot up to the man and saw the man's size twelve boot heading for his ribs.

But the strike never landed.

For Sam there was no thought, no debate of morality, no temperament of his actions only the blinding need to protect his brother. The linebacker was stepping forward to deliver a kick to an already down and bleeding Dean when Sam plowed into him and brutally and methodically yanked his arm backwards, dislocating his shoulder. The man's scream of pain barely registered with Sam as he shoved the man aside and crouched down by Dean.

Clutching onto Dean's shoulder, Sam asked, worry choking his words, "Dean, are you alright?" even as he saw the blood on his brother's lips and could practically feel the agony rolling off Dean in waves. "Dean?" he called in more alarm as his brother's eyes never met his own, instead they focused on something behind Sam.

"Sam," Dean warned, the urgency in his pained voice enough to break Sam from his doctor routine.

Turning around in his crouch, Sam saw that the linebacker had sympathetic friends, three of them, all looking for blood. Sam quickly sized up his opponents. The guy on the left was taller and thinner than Sam, the one in the middle was stocky and short and the one on the right was even larger than the linebacker.

"Help me up," Dean wheezed out the order, trying to get his elbow under him to lever himself off the ground.

"Stay behind me, Dean," Sam commanded, a lethal edge in his voice that Dean had never heard from his brother. Standing up, Sam took up a protective stance in front of his brother.

"Sammy," Dean cautioned and reprimanded, his struggles at last achieving him a sitting position, his back leaning heavily against the base of the bar.

Sam stepped forward, his fists clenched, his jaw set and a look in his eyes that gave his challengers pause. "You don't want to do this," his voice sharp enough to cut glass.

The linebacker, clutching his dislocated shoulder and hovering behind his friends, threatened, "We're gonna bust you up," then he let his eyes travel down to settle on Dean. "And then we're gonna tear your friend apart."

The threat directed at him had made Sam smile, the threat directed at Dean set him into motion.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

Room to Breathe

By: Cheryl W.

Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural, Dean or Sam, nor am I making any profit from this story.

Author's Notes: Thanks so much for the awesome response to Chapter 1! I loved every review!

Chapter 2

Sam's left hook to the gut of the man in the middle of the threesome officially initiated the butt whopping. Even as his victim doubled over, Sam ducked away from a right cross from the burly man on the right and retaliated with an uppercut that caught the man right under the chin, leaving him dazed. At seemingly the last second, the punch from the taller man on the left was blocked by Sam's forearm. For his efforts, the man was on the receiving end up a solid punch to his right eye. To Sam's surprise, the man barely stumbled under the assault but a vicious smile turned up his lips as he plotted his retaliation.

Cursing the woman, the Neanderthal and his own good looks for this mess, Dean gripped onto the bar stool and began to use it to pull himself to his feet. He was supposed to keep Sam out of trouble, not watch his baby brother protect his sorry butt. Gaining his full height, Dean thought he might just black out as his head objected to the higher altitude, his legs felt wobbly and pain was still spider-webbing out from his shoulder. But suddenly none of that mattered as he saw 'Rocky' the beefy guy, ready to hit Sam from behind as his brother was busy giving "stringbean' as Dean dubbed the thin guy, a shiner.

With his protective instincts flaring hotly, Dean, pushing away from the bar which he had moments prior been leaning against to remain standing, stepped between his brother and his back stabbing attacker.

Sensing movement behind him, Sam spared a glance over his shoulder. Finding Dean at his back, ready to face off with 'Rocky,' panic tore through Sam. Returning to his own battle, he hastily ended his scuffle with a brutal elbow to his opponent's temple. He didn't even bother to watch the man sink to the ground, instead he was already in motion, his stomach churning at the thought that he would be too slow, that his brother would suffer another blow before he could interfere. Swinging around, Sam wrapped his arms around his brother's waist and pulled him backwards, Rocky's roundhouse swing missing Dean's jaw by inches.

Tripping backwards at the unexpected interference, Dean landed hard back against Sam's chest. Before he could unlock his brother's grip from his waist, Dean found himself spun around, once again facing the bar but with Sam's hold intact.

With one turn, Sam had effectively put himself between Dean and Rocky…and recklessly turned his back on his attacker. Releasing his brother, Sam intended to engage Rocky but, before he could face his opponent, a hand grabbed his shoulder and roughly yanked him around, causing the younger Winchester to lose his balance. Rocky's right cross connected solidly with Sam's jaw, sending the ghost hunter stumbling backwards.

It ignited a chain reaction. Trying in vain to reach out for the bar to halt his stumble, Sam fell back into Dean, who was in the process of turning around to view the battle. Unprepared to catch his brother and too weakened to do an effective job of it anyways, Dean lost his hard won footing and his back impacted harshly with the bar, knocking the breath from him even as it instilled more pain to his already overloaded body.

Immediately straightening away from Dean, Sam shot a concerned and guilty look over his right shoulder to his brother. "You alright?"

"Just go knock his teeth out, Sammy," Dean breathlessly replied, leaning heavily against the bar, his elbows on the wood to help keep him upright.

Sam chose to take his brother's words literally. Stalking forward, Sam felt his whole body shaking with rage. It was hard enough for him to see Dean hurt, the memory of him tied in that chair in that house, beaten, burned was something he would never forget. But now these pricks had messed with Dean, an obliviously injured Dean, and had even managed to make Sam hurt his own brother …enough was enough. Now they had earned the wrath of Sammy, little brother and protector of Dean Winchester. God help them.

Their father had been very clear about which fighting techniques they could employ in a fight with human beings unhindered by the supernatural. '_Gauge your reaction to their action. They punch, you punch, they know karate, you show 'em your karate. They intend to do bodily harm, you do it to them first. Never escalate the fight any further than you have to. You know how to kill a man, doesn't mean you ever should._' But typical of his brother Sammy, the kid still had more questions, questions he asked only of his brother. "How do I know how far I should take the fight, Dean?" Matter-of-factly Dean had replied, "Listen to your heart, Sammy. It'll tell you what to do. Trust your heart ahead of your muscles, your skill, or your weapons."

Taking notice of the tautness in his brother's body as he headed toward Rocky, Dean, for the first time ever, regretted his advice. Sometimes Sam's heart had a lot to say, too much in fact.

The stocky guy had recovered from Sam's gut punch and was now standing shoulder to shoulder with Rocky. The thought of two against one didn't even faze Sam, he was ready to take on the whole bar to protect Dean if he had to. His two opponents moved forward simultaneously as if Sam was a quarterback they relished sacking. Without breaking his own stride forward, Sam met the attack, slamming his elbow under Rocky's jaw, the man stumbled back, the stockier man, managed to tackle Sam but Sam didn't go down but instead used the man's impact to turn him around even as he latched onto the back of the man's neck and shove him forward.

Taking a quick step to the left, Dean just missed being part of the collision of the stocky man's head as it cracked into the bar where he had stood a moment before. Lifting his eyes from the downed man to his brother, Dean saw Sam give him a cocky apologetic smirk for almost impaling him with the loser. Neither brother saw Stringbean surge from the ground.

So it was without warning, Sam felt someone plow into him and found himself colliding harshly with the wall. A punch rocked his head left and another sailed into his stomach before he could react. But it was the sight that he saw over his attacker's shoulder that had all his breath leaving him.

Seeing Sam tackled into the wall, Dean felt his lethargy fade under the onslaught of his anger. Pushing himself again away from the bar he stalked forward, cutting off the pain his body was broadcasting and shoving aside his weakness as if it didn't equate into his next actions. For in fact, nothing equated except getting Sam free of these clowns. He had taken but two steps toward Sam when Rocky stepped into his path. The SOB smiled.

"Ahhh…poor baby can't hide behind your friend anymore," Rocky goaded, making a show of clenching his fists almost in Dean's face.

Dean let his most cocky smile turn up his lips, "He's not my friend.." and then his words frosted over into something deadly, "he's my brother."

"Good, then there will be a family member in town to claim your body," Rocky punctuated his words with a right cross.

If the sight of seeing his injured brother facing off with a man that would give Mr. T pause caught Sam's breath, hearing his brother's deadly tone turned his blood to ice. "Dean back off!" he yelled a second before another punch cut his lip. Furious at the distraction to his brother's plight, Sam rammed his knee into Stringbean's stomach, doubling the man over before delivering a solid downward blow to his left cheek, sending the man onto the floor in an unconscious heap. Almost leaping over the downed man, Sam ran toward Dean even as he saw his brother duck Rocky's right cross and strike the back of the bigger man's knee with a karate kick.

Finding his leg crumbling under the blow, Rocky changed his right handed fist into a grappling hand snagging unto Dean's jacket, hoping to use the other man's strength to stop his descent. It was a fantastic move, brilliant as it was simple and utterly failed to doom. His grasping hold had unwittingly contacted with Dean's burn, and his opponent's injured shoulder could not bare his 250lbs weight. Knowing when to bail a sinking ship, Rocky released his grip on the collapsing hunter and barely managed to keep his feet in the wake of the other's descent.

In gut wrenching horror, Sam watched Dean sink to his knees, so damn reminiscent of the way he did in Roy's healing tent that Sam felt tears spring to his eyes. His brother's agonized grunt of pain was like a knife in his heart.

Rage like he had never experienced exploded in Sam. With a yell he slammed into Rocky, his hand viciously clamped around the other man's windpipe as he sent his opponent impacting flat out on the floor. Kneeling beside Rocky, Sam began to unleash punch after punch to the man's face, wanting to make the other man pay for hurting his brother.

Heat flared through Dean and the room seemed distance and unreal as his consciousness threatened to wink out on him. He saw Sam slam the other man to the floor as if in slow motion. Then he saw the harsh set to Sam's face, watched as his usually controlled and compassionate brother rained down blow after blow to the already downed man. Unnerved by Sam's loss of control, Dean knew that if Sam didn't stop the beating soon, Rocky's brain would be more toast than it already was. The revelation came harsh enough to break through the fog that was trying to shut Dean down. "Sam," he tried to bark out, his voice however betrayed him, coming out breathless and more a plea than a demand for obedience.

For Sam, his name from his brother's lips was like contact with a live wire. Instantly his eyes flew to his brother, their eyes meeting and Sam could practically read his brother's thoughts. _I'm alright. No need to go all Dirty Harry on the guy._ But his brother's body language spoke the truth to Sam. With urgency, Sam, dismissing the unconscious man lying beside him, crawled over to Dean, reaching the older man just in time to catch him as he teetered forward. Wrapping his arms around Dean, careful to keep his hold away from his brother's left shoulder, Sam, feeling Dean's body trembling against his chest, worried at the heat coming off his brother's bowed head as it rested high on his shoulder.

"Let's get you the hell outta here," Sam's words spoke of anger but his voice trembled with worry and regret. Using his hold on his brother to gently help Dean to his feet, Sam's heart twisted at his brother's grunt of pain.

The elder Winchester, assaulted with a new level of pain as his body tallied it's complaints, struggled to keep his legs under him and his consciousness functioning. As Sam changed position to stand at his side, his arm wrapping around his waist, Dean bowed his head and willed the room to stop spinning. Snaking a hand to his head, he rubbed at his temple. The agony from his shoulder seemed to have awakened every source of pain in his body, ten fold.

Frightened by Dean's weakness and palpable pain, Sam drew closer to Dean, tightened his hold on his brother's waist and gently draped his brother's arm over his shoulders. "Hang on, Dean," he quietly encouraged as he started forward, his brother's feet in motion but not the cocksure stride Sam had tried so hard to imitate as a kid.

Squinting in the glare of the bar lights, Dean let Sam usher him through the parting crowd, his weight nearly being carried by the taller man. A good Samaritan opened the door and then they were under the night sky, the smell of pine trees replacing the odor of alcohol. Their feet scuffed along the asphalt as they cut through the parking lot toward the motel and the Impala gleaming in it's parking spot.

"Hey, we won, right?" Dean said, his words teetering between a boast and a question, needing to say something to interrupt the silence of their journey.

"Yeah, we won," Sam allowed darkly, their 'victory' irrelevant in the light of Dean's present condition.

"Good. 'Cause I don't even want to know how bad I'ld feel if we lost," Dean nearly slurred, catching his boot toe on the asphalt and stumbling.

Having been worried that just such an occurrence would happen, Sam, reacting almost instantly, slipped his right arm around Dean's chest and prevented the injured man from ending up on the ground. "I got ya," Sam assured, bringing them to a halt so Dean could get his bearings again.

Uncomfortable with his clumsiness, Dean didn't meet Sam's eyes, eyes that he knew were analyzing his every movement. Determinedly, Dean began to put one foot in front of the other, causing Sam to again slip to his side. "We gotta leave, cops will be here soon," he pointed out unnecessarily. If there was one thing the Winchesters knew, it was how to become scarce when sirens sounded.

Recognizing Dean's need to appear in control, Sam simply stated, "I'll clear our stuff outta the room." Leaving unsaid that he would be depositing Dean safely in the Impala, the passenger side of the Impala, while he did the packing.

Sam steered Dean to the left, directly toward the car. He was not surprised at his brother's objection.

"Sam, the stairs are that way," Dean pointed out, turning his head slightly to the right to indicate the stairs that led up to their second story room.

"Yeah, car's this way," Sam parried, never altering the bee line for the Impala. "I'm packing, you're sitting in the car." Reaching the passenger side door, he opened it with his right hand and intended to maneuver Dean into the car when his eyes clashed with Dean's green gaze.

"Dude, I'm .." Dean snapped but Sam spoke over his protest.

"You wanna be here when the cops show, Dean? You wanna spend the night in lock up over some stupid bar fight? No, right! Then let me do the packing." To Sam's surprise, Dean said nothing, his eyes turned unreadable and he stepped from his hold and sank down into the driver's side chair. Uncertain how but knowing he had somehow angered his brother, Sam pressed, "Dean.." but found the passenger door slamming shut before he even knew what he would say.

"Fine," Sam huffed, running for the stairs, a man on a mission.

"Fine," Dean growled, leaning back heavily against the Impala's interior, wishing he allowed smoking in his car, or drinking, or tantrums.

It was not the first time Sam Winchester had but mere minutes to pack up his family's worldly possessions and wipe away any remnants of their existence from a room. He shoved their clothing in their two bags, indiscriminate over whose clothing was put in which bag, snapped his computer closed, and scraped their toiletries from the bathroom vanity into a waiting bag.

As his cologne toppled over and slid across the vanity and fell into the trashcan, Sam cursed. Without disgust, he sent his hand plunging into the trash's depths to retrieve the overly priced cologne. His grasping hand pushed aside the tissue box, the soap paper and wrapping for the toilet paper and then his prey was in sight but the other occupant of the bottom of the trash can snagged his full attention. Bending over, Sam pulled out the discarded tube of first aid burn cream, a tube still a quarter full. Confusion hit him first and then the explanation clicked into place, leaving him more angry than he had been in the bar and yet, hurt beyond words.

His head back against the seat, his eyes closed, Dean rubbed his temple with his right hand even as his left hand was clenched tightly into a fist to minimize the agony running down his arm from his injured shoulder. He barely sensed Sam's approach in time to straighten up in the seat and drop his right hand to his lap.

He could not see his brother's expression as the back door was opened, two large bags were unceremoniously shoved into the car and the lap top nearly bounced off the seat when it was tossed onto the car. The door slammed with more force than necessary and then Sam ripped open the driver's door and dropped into the seat. Uncertain of what had escalated his brother's ire, Dean got his answer as Sam whipped something at him, as fate would have it, it struck his left shoulder and bounced onto his lap.

Hissing in pain, Dean began, "Damn it, Sam…" but his rebuke died in his mouth as he recognized the tube that lay on his leg, the tube of burn cream that he had purposefully buried in the depths of the trashcan. It had seemed a simple plan, even brilliant. All he had wanted was some breathing room, his father would have understood his need. But Sam was most definitely not their father.

For one fleeting moment, Dean had contemplated telling Sam straight out that he needed some space, some time to unwind, alone. Just as quickly, he envisioned Sam's reaction, the crease that would mar his brother's temple, his teeth biting into his lower lip, the tilt of his head, the hard swallow right before he launched a thousand questions at him, determined to get to the root of his big brother's troubles. And then Sam would be off, misinterpreting his motives, certain that they were actually a scream for help, or some sign that he was hiding something, or that he wasn't as well as he let on. And that was the best case scenario.

Worst case scenario? Sam would take his desire to get some distance between them personally, would believe that Dean blamed him for the wounds inflicted on him at the ole Bender homestead. Or worse still, Sam would interpret Dean's motive as an unspoken sign of resentment at his presence in his older brother's life. That outcome Dean could not risk, would not risk.

And yet, try as he might, Dean could not smother his raging desire to slip away, to let down his guard, to be able to breathe out a sigh without causing an inquisition of worry from his brother. His con had seemed harmless enough. It would send Sam on a little mission and give him some desperately needed time to be no one's protector, no one's brother, no one's son, no one's savior, to just be another face in the crowd.

'_Yeah, that worked out great_,' Dean quirked to himself before the Impala's driver's side door slammed shut hard enough to rock the whole car, jolting him back to the trouble at hand.

When his eyes shot up to clash into Sam's burning brown gaze, Dean knew that he had inadvertently started a war. '_Ah…crap_,' he silently cursed, tossed the tube over his shoulder to land in the back of the car and sank down into the seat again, covering his eyes with his right hand. Too late he recalled the old adage about good intentions.

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

Room to Breathe

By: Cheryl W.

Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural, Dean or Sam, nor am I making any profit from this story.

Author's Notes: Maybe I should have wrapped this tale up last chapter. But, having been given the doorway into some nice angst and having already been handed an injured Dean, I could not resist exploring the scenario a while longer. Hope you continue to enjoy the story.

Chapter 3

Gunning the Chevy's engine, Sam whipped the Impala around and stomped on the gas, leaving tire marks on the asphalt as the car rocketed onto the highway. Silence choked the dark interior of the car as they sped down the road, a lone car traveling the path hewed out of the forest. Sam's anger manifested itself by his white knuckled grip on the steering wheel and his clenched, throbbing jaw but he said nothing. Out loud. Internally, he was shouting, he was screaming, he was cursing, he was pleading for the truth.

Turning his head, Sam intended to lance a blistering look to his brother and scream out 'why!' But the word never left his suddenly dry mouth. Even in the dark he could tell Dean hadn't moved, at all. His silhouette showed him leaning heavily back against the seat, head against the leather, hand still covering his eyes. Sam knew without a doubt that his brother's show of pain was not a distraction devised to derail his anger. Dean never milked an injury, and if he ever even acknowledged being injured at all it was time to call 911, immediately.

Dean hurt with an intensity he could not tuck away under a cocky smile, not even to prevent Sam from worrying, though at the moment he knew worry wasn't his brother's first emotion toward him, fury was. And Sam had his right to it, Dean admitted, but even as he acknowledged that he prayed his brother would hold off on his first strike of retaliation. Raised voices would only make him wish more desperately to get run over by the Impala, thereby ending his misery.

To say getting branded with a hot poker had not topped Dean's 'most painful injury' list, would be a lie. When the molten metal had seared into his skin, it was like he had never known anything but the all consuming agony and he wondered, even now, if he would have screamed if his jaw hadn't been clamped shut by meaty, brutal hands. Truth was, he had barely choked back a scream in the bar when the Neanderthal had gripped his shoulder, both times. Some part of him knew that, had Pa Bender followed through on his threat, he would have _found_ a way to scream when the poker burned through his eye. '_Instead you sold Sam out like some coward_,' came the accusation not for the first time and still, he had no plausible defense. '_And you're cringing like a little girl from Sam's anger over some burn cream, some little con you played on him. If he knew the truth….._'

Seeing a shiver jolt through Dean's body, panic tore through Sam's heart. Dividing his attention rapidly between the road and his brother, he urgently asked, "Should I take you to the hospital?"

Those were not the words that Dean had been bracing for. Hearing the fear in his brother's voice, the overwhelming concern…for him was just another nail in his coffin of guilt. '_Don't be nice to me, Sam! Please don't be nice to me!_' he wanted to cry out, his soul breaking under the kindness, the love that he no longer deserved.

When Dean didn't reply, Sam's heart thudded loudly in his chest. A quick denial of weakness was Dean's trademark response to any concern Sam revealed, a denial that had yet to come, to Sam's horror, may never come. Wide eyes on Dean more than the road, Sam hurriedly assured, "The nearest hospital is only half an hour away…"

Without adjusting his prone position, Dean answered darkly, "No," hoping Sam would believe annoyance prompted his gruff tone rather than pain. After all, this was the third time Sam had made the hospital suggestion since leaving the Bender's homestead.

Sam's reply was silence but Dean could almost feel the wind from his brother's nearly constant head turning from his focus on the road to him and back again. If he didn't dispel some of the worry rolling off his brother, Dean knew Sam would drag him into a hospital, would even dare to throw him over his shoulder to see it done if push came to shove…which it would. So, in an effort to lessen his brother's worry, Dean dropped his hand from his eyes and forced his eyes open. To his shame, he found he had not the strength to discard his slumped posture. Every limb felt like it weighed a ton. And his head, it felt like he was on one of those teacup rides at the amusement parks where he and Sam got the car spinning so fast he couldn't bring his head forward. He didn't even have it in him to flinch away when Sam's hand came to rest on his forehead.

It was not the heat coming off his brother's brow that sent Sam's stomach churning with worry but the shock of Dean _letting_ him check him for fever, without compliant, without a reaction whatsoever. Leaving the implications of his brother's submission remain unspoken, Sam focused on the matter at hand. Reluctantly he let his hand fall away from Dean's brow. "You're burning up," not an accusation but a sigh as if his worst fears were being realized.

"Please don't mention burning…or fire…or hot," Dean mumbled back, a smirk in his tone as he managed to roll his head toward Sam, trying to read his brother's shadowed features.

Dean's attempt at sick, dark humor, Dean's favorite kind of humor, lightened some of Sam's tension…as he knew was Dean's intent. Not allowing himself to be sidelined so easily, Sam quietly pointed out with gentle insistence, "Dean, a fever could mean infection."

"Or it could mean yesterday I took a freakin' walk in the woods while it was raining with temperatures in the thirties and I'm getting a cold," Dean snapped back, wanting to wipe away the tremor of worry from Sam's voice, needing Sam's anger to stand between them, to keep him from begging Sam for forgiveness from a betrayal his brother didn't even suspect. If God was merciful, would never suspect.

Flinching at Dean's words, Sam returned his full focus on the dark road before him, guilt tightening his throat. It was his fault, he knew that. Dean would never lay the blame on him but he knew it was his stupidity that had gotten him caught, had forced Dean to face off with the Benders in an effort to rescue him, that he had ultimately been the cause for Dean's agony, at the hands of the Benders and now. His fault. How could he make that up to Dean? Dean, the person he loved more than anyone else in the world, had been tortured because of _him_. How could he even _think_ he deserved absolution for that! And even if redemption was possible, it certainly wasn't to be granted for doing a piss poor job of protecting his brother in a bar fight.

Even in the moonlight, Dean could see the set to Sam's jaw as his brother stared straight ahead. Recognizing his brother's response was not one of anger but anguish, Dean cursed, silently. It seemed that lately all he was good at was hurting his brother. '_Yeah, well, it sure isn't saving him,_' a bitter voice sneered in his head.

"I'm fine, Sam," he reassured brusquely as if his brother's concern was bothersome instead of the only thing that had kept him on his feet the previous night as they trekked through the woods back to the car.

After all that they had been through, all that they had survived, all the emotions that had ripped their world apart lately, Sam railed against Dean's pretense that nothing had changed. Relegating Sam again to the status of nurtured baby brother, Dean resumed the role of invincible superhero. But everything had changed, everything kept changing. Where was the plateau? When would they reach the point where they could draw in a sigh of relief! (No matter how small their relief was for that moment in time.) Was it too much to ask for a reprieve from the onslaught of pain, of fear, of worry!

"Yeah, you're just fine," Sam sneered sarcastically, choosing the avenue of anger to drowning in guilt, frustration and worry. Anger he was good at, his father had taught him all he knew. "You know what, why don't I just pull over and let you drive?" But the Impala stayed true to course, no swerving, no stopping, no Chinese fire drills. Sam, his eyes swinging between the road and Dean, said darkly, "If you're lucky, maybe you can manage to drive off before I get back in the car. That's what you want isn't it? To get away from me? To leave me behind somewhere?"

Suddenly Dean's fatigue and physical pain took a back seat to his fury. Without conscious thought he abandoned his slouch, his back went rigid and his eyes blazed into Sam's eyes as they flicked from the road and back to him. "Were you busy sniffing glue at Stanford for four years! Didn't I just spend the last three days looking for you! Not sleeping, not eating, and teaming up with the police, Sam, _the police_ to find you!"

Even his brother's confession of worry couldn't dampen the anger that was flaring in Sam. "I guess you're just sorry you found me so soon, right?" his look lancing into Dean's stunned features before resuming his glare on the darkened highway. "Now you realize you could have used more time on your own, more time to hang out in bars, down a few shots, smoke a few cigarettes, get in more bar fights." Censure and anger permeated every syllable of every word.

Drawing in a steadying breath, Dean mollified, "Sam, don't be a drama queen. I just needed some time alone."

"In a crowded bar!" Sam snapped back with a dark glare thrown Dean's way. "You sent me on a snipe hunt! Why? So you could _be a beer ahead of me?_" he repeated the clause in Dean's note with venomous disbelief.

Throwing up his right hand in frustration, Dean turned to look out the passenger window, leaving his side of the car conspicuously silent.

"Dean!" Sam demanded only to be greeted by silence. "Dean!" his voice rising. "Answer me!

Whipping his head around, Dean tersely admitted even as he fought to conceal his wince of agony as pain spiked behind his eyes at the quick motion, "Fine, yeah, I wanted some room to _breathe_! You've had four years of space all I wanted was an hour, a lousy hour."

Part of Sam, the part of him that was Dean's friend, related to Dean's needs, even felt guilty for having had his four years of "space". But the other part of Sam, the part of him that was Dean's _brother,_ the part that dominated his heart and soul, could not be so indulgent. His emotions teetered between feeling betrayed by Dean's need to be apart from him and traumatized over what harm had come to his brother in his absence, what further harm could have been possible had Dean been granted his "lousy hour" of space tonight in that bar.

"Come on, Dean, we both know being alone really isn't something you're good at. Tonight is proof enough of that. What? It took you _less _than an _hour_ before you needed me to come to your rescue," the harsh words severing more than the silence in the car.

Dean felt as if a knife had cut him down to the bone, slicing through his heart in it's arc. It was the assault he didn't expect, the fatal blow he hadn't known he had left himself vulnerable to.

As his words seemed to echo in the car, Sam felt sick. This night he had set out to protect Dean, not turn his brother's darkest fears against him! Not for the first time, Sam cursed the shape shifter and his whole mind melt abilities. The freak of nature had no right to pillage that secret from his brother's soul and maybe even less right to tell Sam that information. '_And now I've used it as a weapon against Dean…just because my feelings got hurt.'_ Suddenly absolution seemed unattainable.

His eyes going cold and dark, Dean snorted, "You always go for the jugular. Good for you Sammy," he snidely congratulated. Laying his head back on the leather seat, closing his eyes and resting his hands on his stomach, he seemed to adopt the charade of lounging in a hammock on a sunny day.

Brutally, Sam remembered what he had forgotten. Dean was not like him, not like John Winchester. Pain wasn't something he showed, his anger was a stringently reigned beast and when it came to shutting people out, Dean's emotional walls rivaled the vaults of Fort Knox. "That's it! That's all you have to say? _Good for you, Sammy_!" Sam goaded, needing Dean to fight back, for things to tread into a realm where he could reach his brother, could beg for forgiveness.

Without breaking from his slouched pose, Dean ordered, "Wake me when we reach the next motel." A beat of silence fell. "And get two rooms."

Suddenly Sam's breath caught in his throat, his eyes burning as he watched Dean, expecting the older man to throw him a ballsy smirk telling him that a joke had been played, a prank had been unleashed. But Dean remained still, distant, unattainable, his emotional vault doors sealed and locked. Sam felt something break inside him as he realized that **he** was the threat Dean was barricading himself against.

TBC

Thanks for reading! Love to hear what you think.

Cheryl W.


	4. Chapter 4

Room to Breathe

By: Cheryl W.

Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural, Dean or Sam, nor am I making any profit from this story.

Chapter 4

When the next motel came into sight, Sam contemplated driving by it, wanting to delay the two room division, forever if possible. Even as the thought came, it left. He could not risk the consequences if Dean perked up from his sleep just in time to see the motel fly by outside his window. With reluctance, Sam steered the Impala over the white line, its tires crunching the gravel of the parking lot.

Shooting a look to Dean, expecting his brother to stir, Sam grumbled silently, '_I should have kept going! He's still dead to the world._' Instantly, he cringed at his own poor choice of descriptions. How often could Dean skim the boundaries of death before he lost his precarious balance? Shaking off his dark thoughts, Sam pulled up to the office, put the car in park and cut the engine. Even the absence of his precious car's engine noise didn't jar Dean from sleep, sleep which Sam, hours before, had harped on Dean to take, which his stubborn brother had adamantly refused.

Now the thought of waking Dean so they could engage in a heated argument seemed utterly heartless to Sam. With the outside light of the motel shining into the car, Sam got his first good look at his brother since the bar fight and his chest tightened. Still slumped back against the seat, his head angled back to rest on the black leather, Dean's breath seemed loud in the silence of the car. And then there were the other things. The paleness of his face, the crease of pain that even in sleep still marred the skin under his eyes, the cut on his forehead that Dean had refused to let Sam stitch up, the blood on his bottom lip from tonight's fight and the hideous bruising that encompassed his right eye, marked the left side of his forehead, tainted the definition of his right cheekbone, and a smattering of color outlined his right jaw line. Sam swallowed hard as Dean's vulnerability slammed into him like a freight train, just like it had back in that hospital when Dean was dying.

To his relief and chagrin, it was not the sight of seeing Dean unmoving in that basement that flashed through his mind's eyes but instead he vividly remembered tonight's bar fight. His helplessness as the linebacker clamped his hand down on Dean's injured shoulder, furious at the blow that knocked his brother from the bar stool, Dean's agony nearly tangible to him as he watched Dean fall to his knees. Fury rose in Sam all over again. Those jerks in the bar had **known** Dean was hurt, the bruises on his face making his pain impossible to miss, and still they had sought to hurt him even more, **had** hurt him, without remorse or leniency or compassion. '_And I didn't stop them, not in time, not when it counted. Just like the Benders, my actions came too little, too late._' His own predicament of being locked in a cell forgotten, made a non issue. If he could move a cabinet with his mind to save his brother's life, why had he not been about to unlocked a blasted cage door!

But worse still than his repeated failure to protect Dean was the irrefutable knowledge that he had been at fault for his brother's injuries. He had left his brother alone in that basement, had even tossed him the Tazer that electrocuted him. Dean had gone into the Bender's lair to save _him, _had snuck over to the bar, injured as he was, just to escape from Sam's presence. And then to top it all off, Sam had thrown his brother's fear of being alone in his face with casual brutality.

'_No wonder he's shutting you out,'_ Sam jeered to himself, '_that he wants a night to himself, without being saddled with you. Is that too much to ask? Can't you allow him that small reprieve!' _But the little boy in him that was still Sammy refuted, '_he's had two nights without me. Why does he need… want more?_'

Dean's earlier words came back to Sam, "three days…not eating…not sleeping", shaming the younger Winchester. He was acting like Dean had been out on the town, having a great time while he was held in a cage, waiting to be the next segment of National Geographic. In truth, Sam knew Dean had experienced the worst of the ordeal, his worry would have been boundless, his guilt unquenchable, his fears unmasked…making him vulnerable. All Sam had done was sit in a cage and wait, knowing with utter faith that Dean was looking for him, that his brother would find him, would save him. "Nothing's going to happen to you while I'm around," Dean's words ringing through his head like a soothing bedtime story, allowing him to drop off to sleep even as Dean had not been able to.

Now, his decision made, Sam got out of the car, quietly shutting the door behind him, looking inside, noting with mixed emotions that Dean hadn't stirred even at the creak of the door. Walking toward the office door, Sam ran a hand through his hair. He would give Dean the space he needed, the space he deserved. It was the least Sam thought he owed his brother.

"Two rooms…one on the first floor, one on the second," Sam told the clerk, hoping Dean would see the gesture as a sign that Sam respected his wishes, had no intention of hovering at a connecting door, listening to the sounds coming from the room beside him. If Dean wanted space, needed space, he would give it to him, even if it hurt Sam to the core.

"Here's the room key for the first floor," the clerk said, handing Sam one envelope containing an access card. "You want the second floor room above it?"

Sam shook his head and the clerk had the common sense to simply scan another card and hand him a second envelope with an access card. Now holding the two envelopes in his hand, Sam turned for the door took two steps before swinging around and stalking back to the counter. "Ahhhh…Could I get a second key for the first floor room?" he offered up no explanation and with a sigh, the clerk complied, handing him the second access card. Distractedly, Sam slipped the card inside his jeans pocket and walked out of the office.

Bending down as he approached the Impala, Sam could see Dean hadn't moved. For a moment he stood by the Impala, uncertain, then with a sigh, he climbed back behind the Impala, making no concession of the noise of his door slamming.

It was enough to break through Dean's sleep, blinking hard Dean started to do his standard roll of his shoulders to work out the kinks but a grimace of pain halted his routine. For a moment there he had forgotten, everything. And it felt so good, to be blissfully ignorant of his own failings, to his pain, to Sam's anger. Turning to the driver's side of the car, he saw the set of Sam's jaw as his brother brought the car to life and backed it around. Though his sleep had given him a reprieve, Dean deducted that his silence had apparently not done anything to implore Sam's hostility. His brother didn't spare him a look as he reparked the Impala in the western end of the parking lot.

Sam didn't have to look at Dean to know he was awake, to feel his eyes on him, to sense something was out of sync with the person he thought he knew better than anybody else in the world. Swallowing, he tried to moisten his dry throat without making it obvious. He didn't want to sound hurt, or angry or ..anything when he spoke. "You're in room seven," his voice lower than usual as he pulled the envelope from his shirt pocket with the room's access card. Holding out the envelope to Dean, his eyes forward, his head nodded toward the room right in front of the Impala. "Can you.." he began but Dean answered his inquiry bitterly.

"Yeah, Sam I can make it there without your help." Dean chastised himself for sounding angry, for being angry, for startling when Sam said pointedly "**_You're_** in room 7." Not **we're** in room 7, but **you**…alone. He had gotten what he asked for, what he had demanded…then why did he feel hurt and angry and like he wanted to cry. '_Because Sam didn't fight against the separation…apparently he wants away from me…even worse than I need my space away from him.' _Turn around was fair play…but it hurt almost as much as the hot poker had. Opening the door, Dean, by sheer willpower, forced his hurting body out of the car, feeling reminiscent of the way he had struggled to achieve every movement, no matter how small, after his heart attack.

Repressing a sigh, Sam got out of the car, opened the back door of the Impala and retrieved their two bags and the computer. His eyes met Dean's over the roof of the car and he braced for an argument over who had the pleasure of carrying Dean's bag to the room. To his surprise, his brother looked away, closed the car door and walked the small distance to room seven. Some would argue it was too short a distance to gauge but Sam knew his brother's stride better than he knew his own, and what he had just witnessed wasn't it by a long shot.

Reaching the doorway, Dean was hard pressed not to lean against the frame like he had done when he went AWOL from the hospital. Instead he locked his knees together and struggled to slide the access card from the envelope, an envelope which was trembling in his left hand. Apprehension gripped him as he heard the door of the Impala shut, heard the crunch of his brother's footsteps on the gravel. He felt like he was trying to pick the handcuff lock again with the Bender's rumbling car heading his way. Seemingly at the last second, he managed to pull the card from the envelope and swipe it into the access lock. A green light glowed as Sam reached his side.

Sam had watched Dean pick complicated locks quicker than he had managed to get the access card into the room's lock. But he said nothing as Dean opened the door, his hand reaching out for his bag which Sam held in his right hand. Pulling the bag back, Sam stepped by Dean into the room, depositing his brother's bag onto the bed closest to the door. Turning around, Sam saw that Dean had halted just inside the room, his hand on the door knob. His eyes flickering away, Sam said, "I'm in room 15, upstairs to the left if you need anything," awkwardly feeling like a hotel porter.

Dean said nothing, could think of nothing appropriate to say.

Taking Dean's silence and unflinching stare as a dismissal, Sam stalked for the door, saying as he passed his brother, "Room's non-smoking," tapping on the non-smoking sign glued to the door as he turned to the left and made his way up the stairs to the second floor.

Feeling abandoned and outmaneuvered by his baby brother, Dean stepped fully inside the room and used his foot to swing the door closed. Pushing tired legs across the room, he stood by the bed, struggled a moment to unzip his bag one handedly. He didn't care that the night was still young, he was inclined to crawl into the bed and lose himself in sleep again, this time for a few hours. Searching for his "night attire" namely a t-shirt and his shorts, he pulled out a pair of jeans that would have needed rolled up three times and a preppy shirt he wouldn't be caught buried in. "Sam's," he sighed, not surprised at the mix up in clothing. When it was time to vacate a premise, packing etiquette wasn't a consideration, getting away was. Digging further into the bag, he withdrew a t-shirt but he froze as he unfolded it. It was his shirt, the name Metallica embossed on the front an easy give away. But the thing was, this shirt, a shirt that he had once claimed as his all time favorite article of clothing, had been MIA for years…four years to be exact.

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Placing his laptop on the other bed, the bed that would remain painfully empty, Sam unceremoniously dropped his bag on the floor and flopped down on the bed by the door. The room felt quiet, too quiet. He could hear the hum of the electric appliances, could clearly make out the wind rustling the leaves outside, could feel the absence of the other bed even with his eyes closed.

'_Don't sulk, Sammy_,' Sam taunted, the voice in his head Dean's. Pushing himself into a sitting position, he reached over the edge of the bed and levered his bag onto the bedspread. It took him no less time than it had Dean to realize that he wasn't a great porter after all. His tip would be sadly lacking.

Relieved to have a purpose, any purpose, Sam began to separate his clothing from Dean's, creating two piles on his bed. He could image how Dean would have unpacked the bag, nailing Sam in the head with each article of clothing that was his brother's. The thought should have put a smile on Sam's face, a smirk at least, instead he visibly swallowed, trying to shut down his thoughts. But the next piece of clothing that he pulled from his bag seemed intent on annihilating his dodgy control.

Spreading his brother's shirt out on the bed, his fingers trembled as they brushed over the hole in the fabric… in the upper left shoulder. Clamping his eyes shut, Sam clutched the shirt brutally in his hands as if it were the garment that had betrayed his brother, had allowed him to be so cruelly wounded. '_No, I betrayed him, I let him be tortured_,' he accused silently.

Without mercy his mind played the same scenes over and over again like a record that had kept skipping, again and again and again. His breath grew shallower as each image conjured up feelings that threatened to crush him from the inside out. The shock of finding Dean tied to that chair, hurt, bleeding, in pain, the revulsion at the smell of burned flesh that assaulted him as he knelt by his brother and set to work on untying him, the fury at the sight of the hole in his brother's shirt, his frustration at Dean's flippant explanation, '_Let's just say Pa Bender takes getting hot and bothered to a whole new level_'.

And then there had been the tangle of emotions that had twisted Sam's heart and gut when he helped Dean remove his layer of shirts last night. His brother's top shirt, the shirt now clutched in Sam's hand, Sam had slipped from his brother's shoulders carefully, only eliciting a wince from Dean. Removal of the t-shirt underneath, the t-shirt that fused with his brother's skin…

Releasing his hold on the shirt, Sam bowed his head and linked his hands behind his neck. "No!" Sam growled lowly, attempting to cut off his mind's attempt to revisit that horror of seeing his brother's tortured flesh. But it was a vain hope; the images were imprinted on his soul. Sam gave a small cry mixed with anger, frustration and pain. He couldn't handle those memories, not now, not when he couldn't look over to the other bed and be reassured that his brother was alive, that he was not writhing in agony, was no longer sweat drenched and trembling under his hands, could hear his denials and brave words devised to vanquish his baby brother's fears.

As a kid, there had been a few times when Sam had cried at the sight of Dean's wounds, wounds too serious to be down played, too cruel to be accepted. Looking at the seared skin of his brother's shoulder last night, Sam had felt that urge to cry again. Dean, as perceptive as ever to his brother's emotions, had said what he always said, "Don't, Sammy. I'm alright."

And Sam had let it go, had stifled his emotions, had allowed Dean to throw up his barriers, had tended to his brother's shoulder stoically, having voiced his suggestion of going to a hospital only once. As pathetic as it was, Dean, by allowing him to tend to his wound, had kept Sam's fears in check, had eased some of his guilt, had unknowingly or even knowingly kept his brother from shattering into a thousand pieces.

Sam cursed himself now for not realizing what would come later, what cost he would have to pay for his peace of mind. It was inevitable that Dean's innate defenses would flare to life, causing him to brick up a wall between them. Sadly, it was so easily accomplished. Dean simply removed the first aid burn cream from the equation, thereby effectively eliminated Sam's means to aid him. And, congratulations, a wall was born.

Add to that recipe his reaction to Dean's insolence to his own pain, the bar fight, the unveiling of his brother's con and his own barb about being alone, Sam figured he had helped mortar ten inches to the depth of Dean's wall. "Great job, college boy," he growled, fighting again to quiet the notion that had gripped him in the motel office as he uttered "two rooms." The notion that the separation between he and Dean wouldn't just be for tonight, that it would be forever.

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It was happening all over again. Somewhere Dean catalogued it as a nightmare but even that knowledge didn't lessen the strength of his reactions. He could smell the scent of blood, feel the ropes rip into his skin, was again drowning in the deluge of agony as the hot poker burned his flesh like it was newspaper. Then the poker hovered by his eye, ready to burn it from its socket. '_Let him do his worst! Scream all you want but don't pick Sam! Don't Pick Sam!'_ his mind coached but apparently it was not in control here. Nothing changed. He folded, he sold out his brother, he marked Sam for death with three simple words, "Pick the guy."

Somewhere inside, where his soul lingered, something in Dean flamed out. He knew what came next, he knew what he had sacrificed, who he had sacrificed. He offered no threats this time, no promises of revenge, could not hold back the shutter that went through him as the gunshot echoed in the night air. '_I killed Sam. Sam's dead because of me. I chose him…I sold out my own brother …to save my life…no, not even that, I sold him out to save my eye.'_

Then a sound sent his head snapping up and his breath left him as Sam inexplicably lay at his feet, a bullet hole in the center of his chest welling blood, staining his t-shirt a darker hue than black, his eyes beseechingly on Dean, his lips forming 'Dean" even as his breath wheezed out of him barely breaking through the silence of the room. "Help me, Dean," Sam pleaded, his pain filled eyes searing into Dean's soul. "Save me."

Dean's breath came in gulps but he couldn't form words, nor could he look away from Sam. He didn't even start as familiar boots stopped by Sam's head, there was no surprise as the owner of the boots crouched down beside his brother and he saw the man's face was his own. There was no room for denials. This was no shapeshifter, no thought form, this was him, the him that was stripped bare of lies, of pretenses, of denials. Sam was oblivious to the Dean crouched down at his side, the only Dean he knew was before him, tied to a chair. Dean wanted to run from the hope in Sam's eyes, the faith, the love.

The Dean beside Sam shot a smirk to the imprisoned Dean. "Poor little Sammy. Putting all his faith in you." He snorted. "He doesn't get it, does he? He doesn't see what's right before his eyes." Pulling a gun, he leveled it at Sam whose world consisted only of his bound brother. "You're not going to save him," derision was in this Dean's voice, as his eyes bore into the true Dean. "You can't even save yourself! In the end, it's gonna be you who gets him killed." The armed Dean shrugged. "Why put yourself through the wait." His eyes never leaving his bound counterpart, he pulled the trigger with the confidence of a right decision made.

"Nooooooo!" Dean screamed from the depths of his soul.

When hands grasp his shoulders, it was like jolt of agony from the poker all over again. This time, however, no ropes prevented him from reacting. Unleashing his honed survival instincts, he gripped the knife under his pillow, surged off the bed and tackled his attacker, sending them both tumbling to the floor. With deadly intent he pressed his knife to his attacker's throat, his heart pounding in his chest, the despair and rage from his dream still thrumming through his nerves.

"Dean, it's Sam," Sam declared with gentle force, coaching himself to not swallow, wanting, needing to prevent himself from inadvertently jarring the knife at his throat, his eyes beseeching his brother to snap out it. "It was just a dream, Dean. You're Ok now," his voice quavered, not at the danger his brother presented to him, but at the anguish and pain he could see in Dean's glassy eyes.

His brother's pleading voice sliced through the haze in Dean's mind, allowing him to realize, in horror, that he was about to slit his own brother's throat. That it was Sam who he had pinned to the floor, whose neck he was holding the knife against, drawing a small amount of blood. Recoiling away, no longer straddling Sam, Dean staggered back, landing on the floor, his back against the bed, and in horror, he let the knife slip from his hand.

Instantly Sam sat up, worried eyes on Dean, and started to crawl to his brother. "Hey, are you alright?" he asked anxiously. He was unprepared when Dean skittered away from his touch, horrified green eyes flying to the thin line of blood on Sam's neck.

"You're bleeding, Sam," Dean choked out, self hatred brimming in his every cell, knowing he had hurt his brother…again.

"It's nothing, Dean," Sam reassured, crouching on the floor inches from his brother. He wanted to go to Dean but something in his brother's eyes made him afraid that the other man would flinch away from him again. Seeing Dean huddled on the floor, his face pale and bruised, his knees pulled up to his chest, rattled Sam's beliefs. Nothing had prepared him for the devastation of seeing Dean looking so young, so utterly vulnerable, so damaged.

His eyes dark, haunted as they met Sam's, Dean questioned, "Why are you here?" his voice low, confused.

Swallowing, Sam was uncertain what to say, his practiced speech having flown the coop as he entered to see Dean caught in the throes of a hellish nightmare.

With a glimmer of his normal impatience, Dean gruffly demanded, "Sam, what did you need?"

"You," Sam boldly confessed, tears shinning in his eyes as he spoke the truth that he had concealed so long in the depths of his soul. "I need you Dean."

TBC

Thanks for reading!

Cheryl W.


	5. Chapter 5

Room to Breathe

By: Cheryl W.

Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural, Dean or Sam, nor am I making any profit from this story.

Chapter 5

"I need you Dean."

The words were meant to save Dean, to tie him irrevocably to Sam. Yesterday they would have. Tonight… tonight they were the catalyst with the power to sever their ties of brotherhood, of family. The ties Sam had always believed, without a doubt, Dean would never allow to be imperiled.

A bitter snort came from Dean, a smirk hinging on malice turned up his lips and he gave a shake of his head. Sam admitting that he needed him! How long had he wanted to hear that from Sam, **needed** to hear it, had naively thought it would right all the wrongs in his life. Now his brother's words were the equivalent to tossing a gasoline can onto a three alarm fire. Everything was ablaze, making Dean think favorably upon undergoing another electrocution. The time for him to protect Sam was over, it had to be, he was not longer equal to the task or even worthy of it. Their Bender escapade made that truth brutally evident.

Dean drew comfort knowing, in his heart, that Sam did not need him. After all, who truly needed or wanted a Judas in their life, ready to betray them for thirty pieces of silver…or to retain an eye. No, such betrayers had a part to play but once their scene was done, they scampered off to the credits, never to steal the spot light again from the hero. '_And I've been telling myself I was the hero! Ain't that pathetic?'_

"You don't need me Sam," his voice gruff, bitter, his eyes daring Sam to refute his acknowledgement. "You haven't needed me since you turned fourteen."

Unprepared for Dean's denial, Sam stammered, "What? Dean….no…"

"Don't lie just because you feel sorry for me," the edge in Dean's voice like another knife to Sam's throat.

"Sorry for you!" Sam repeated incredulously. "Dean, I meant what I said."

A sardonic smile tipped up Dean's lips, his tone reprimanding and hard. "I'm not dying anymore, Sam, so cut the crap."

Sam felt his chest tighten painfully. How could Dean talk about his death so cavalierly! Like he believed it wouldn't have fazed Sam, wouldn't have shattered him forever, like Sam had already relegated his brother's failing heart to a long forgotten memory that no longer evoked a response. "Don't say that," Sam growled half in warning and half in plea.

"Say what? Dying or crap?" No levity glimmered in Dean's eyes at the barb. Instead a look of seriousness, of finality settled in his green eyes.

Instinctively Sam knew he did not **want** to hear his brother's next words, fearing that they would destroy the life he knew. "Let's get you off the floor," he cut in to the moment's silence. Forgetting his brother's previous skittish reaction, Sam boldly closed the distance between them. Laying one hand on his brother's knee while the other gripped Dean's forearm, he expected Dean to readily abandon his weakened position on the floor even if it meant getting help from Sam to gain his feet.

Feeling as if his chance to save Sam was slipping through his fingers, Dean, unmoving, met Sam's eyes head on. "We both know this isn't working," the quiet words like an explosion in the room. With desperate resolve Dean forced the rest of the words past his clenched jaw. "Us. Together." Sadness marked his next statement. "We spend more time taking each other apart than we do the bad guys, Sam."

Sam could not breathe, could not smother down the pain threatening to burn his soul to ashes. Unable to speak, he shook his head in refusal.

"And I'm tired of it," Dean's voice cracked, his eyes pleading for a reprieve from the pain he no longer could bare, his body near collapse. "You wanna go, then go."  
"I don't want to go," Sam instantly protested, his voice tight with emotions. "I told you it's just you and me…we'll see this thing through together."

Together! Dean, convinced that Sam staying with him would be a death sentence for his brother, desolately accepted the path he had to travel. Shoving Sam away, watching as his brother lost his balance and fell back onto the floor, Dean challenged with a ruthlessness he had never unleashed on Sam before, "What thing! Your revenge trip!"

With scorn Dean taunted, "It won't solve anything Sam, killing the thing that killed Jess." Then Dean flung his brother's words from the bridge in Jericho, California back at him. "Just like you said about Mom, even if we do find what killed her, Jess is still gone and she **isn't coming back**."

Sam's blood ran cold at Dean's words…no, at **his** own words. They were so callous, so selfish, so cruel. He couldn't believe he had said them about his own mother, aloud to his own brother. '_Dean's right, he's been right all along. I'm a selfish bastard, the only feelings I care about are my own._' Sitting up again, Sam breathed out, "Dean, I'm sorry…", struggling to keep the sob from breaking free.

Stunned to be the recipient of Sam's remorseful apology instead of his anger, Dean resolved to take their dialogue to another level. A level that would ensure Sam's safety even as it sealed Dean to being without his brother, probably forever. "Sorry for what?" a deadly challenge gleamed in Dean's gaze. "For tossing Mom away because, to you, the way she died makes her some freak in a horror movie and that doesn't fit into the "normal" life you want! Because you feel that she failed **you** by dying! Go back to Stanford where you belong, Sam."

Swinging from shame to hurt to anger, Sam nearly shouted, "I'm not going to quit until we find Dad!"

Dean snorted, "Dad! Now I'm supposed to believe you've putting off your "future on a platter" out of some worry you have for him. You didn't even want to spare a freakin' weekend away from your "safe" life to search for him when I showed up, worried that he was **dead**. So don't tell me it's about taking responsibility for Dad's "crusade" or your love for the old man. It's all about revenge with you. You and the old man, so alike." A bitter laugh accompanied his shake of his head. "Nothing else matters to you two but getting what you want."

"All I've done on this road trip is to do what **you** want!" Sam yelled, climbing to his feet to tower over his seated brother.

Tilting his head up so his eyes could bore into Sam's, Dean dangerously countered, "You have no idea what I want, Sam. None."

"You dragged me along to search for dad like you were five years old and now you want me as far away from you as I can get. Do you have any idea what you want, Dean! I mean really, without Dad here giving you orders, do you know what to think, how to feel?"

"I want you to get away from me," Dean's tone deadly and sharp enough to cut diamonds. Sam would never suspect the demand was devised to protect him, not when Dean's true reasons for his statement remained masked behind the anger he let reflect from his eyes and roll off his soul.

Pushing down his hurt, Sam let his anger answer Dean's request. "Just like that, huh? Beg me to come alone, to stay with you and now kick me to the curb," beginning to pace in front of his seated brother.

"I was wrong about you," Dean's voice was thick and low like control was slipping away from him.

The statement froze Sam in place. "What are you talking about?"

With a sigh, Dean rested his head back against the bed, his eyes so dark they seemed black as they focused on Sam. "I thought there was some part of Sammy still alive in you."

Sam tilted his head and bit his lip as his brother's sorrowful words lanced into him.

Dean continued, knowing the hurt he was about to inflict, convincing himself that it was for Sam's own good. "Some part of you that still gave a damn about Dad, about me, about Mom. I almost had myself believing that the past four years were tough on you, because you missed your family, no matter how little." He gave a scornful laugh, "I told myself that if you knew Dad needed you, that I needed you, you would have been there for us. You would have skipped out on taking exams, writing papers, shacking up with Jess to protect your family. You would have been there to help me remove two bullets from Dad so he wouldn't die, if you had only known. That you would have answered my phone call two years ago if you only knew my insurance cut out and I got booted out of the hospital while I was still too messed up to even walk and Dad was no where to be found." He shook his head but no humor was in the gesture. "And I thought **you** were good at running from reality. Must run in the family," his tone coated with self disgust.

Sam was left standing, bleeding and broken, his breath coming hard and fast. Dean's censure was everything he deserved and his revelations of the past four years bared every fear Sam had to the bone. Where did he go from here? How could he make amends for what he had done…and not done, said and not said!

Drawing in a breath, Dean raised his head from the mattress, "You certainly didn't need me in the past four years Sam. And I don't need you now. I'll call you when Dad tracks down what killed Jess. I won't stand in the way of your revenge, yours or Dad's." Pulling out his wallet with a wince of pain, he tossed it to Sam, who numbly caught it. "Take the credit card or if that hurts your honor code, take the cash. There should be enough cash to get you a bus ride back to Stanford."

"You really want me to go," Sam choked out, his hurt, his devastation unmasked.

"Yes, I do," Dean's voice was steady, firm, cold. '_Go before I get you killed, Sammy_.' Dean nearly flinched as he recalled the report of the gunshot in his nightmare all over again. "Go home, Sam," he lowly ordered, dropping his head down onto his knees.

'_Home_', the word echoed in Sam's head, cutting him to the quick. It hurt hearing Dean label Stanford as his home. To Sam, his true home had always been Dean. A home he thought he would always be welcome to…even when he didn't reciprocate the invitation. Suddenly he felt like he had lost everything and everyone he had ever loved.

In defeat, Sam pulled the cash from the wallet, never contemplating taking the credit card because he knew his brother had need of it. He held the wallet out to Dean but Dean remained unmoving, his head still resting on his knees. Placing the wallet on the bed, Sam walked to the door. "I'll leave in the morning," he said as he pulled the door shut behind him.

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As the door clicked shut behind Sam, Dean knew he had heard worse sounds in his life but right now he just didn't know when. Tightly wrapping his arms around his knees, Dean huddled there on the floor, broken, alone and victorious. Sam was going to leave, Dean wasn't going to get his brother killed. He would protect him…by letting him walk away tomorrow and never seeing him again.

"I win," he drawled, his voice rough and seemingly loud in the empty room even muffled as it was. '_Don't even think about crying_, _freak,_' he contemptuously warned himself, desperately trying to lock away his ragged emotions, to ignore the tightness in his chest, to dismantle the sob crawling up his throat, choking him. He didn't cry, that was his Dad and Sammy's department, never his. He was the strong one, he had to be, people got hurt if he wasn't strong, if he allowed any weakness to worm its way past his barriers.

As they had so many times in the past month, the preacher's words came back to him, condemning him to his fate. "I saw a young man with an important job to do and it's not done." His hunting days were not done, he knew they would not be done until he took his last breath. But Sammy's hunting days were limited. His brother had one battle yet to wage, one revenge mission to fulfill and then he would walk away, forever, right into that story book life he wanted, deserved. '_Sammy won't share my fate. And that's enough of a happy ending for me._' Dean concluded, feeling some of the anguish melt away at the thought.

Lifting his head and letting it again rest back on the mattress, Dean pulled the pack of cigarettes from his pocket along with his lighter. Deftly he put the cigarette in his mouth, lit it and drew in the cancer causing nicotine with satisfaction. With his lifestyle, he figured it wasn't like he was going to live long enough to _get_ cancer and smoking in a non-smoking room didn't even give him pause. Now he thought it strange that Sam actually thought the sign would stop him. '_Sam thought you wouldn't break the rule because he clearly didn't want you to_,' came to him like a bullet. "Sammy, Sammy. Such misplaced faith in me," he drawled hoarsely, taking in another deep drag from his cigarette.

The cigarette nearly fell from his fingers when Sam, without warning, stalked back into his motel room and came to a halt in front of him.

"For four years you had all the room to breathe you could ask for," Sam stated, his voice steady, his stance like granite, his eyes blazing with unshakable resolve. "I hope it was long enough because it's going to have to last you. I'm not going anywhere, Dean."

Stunned at the turn of events that was stealing away his victory, Dean couldn't even formulate a suitable come back, could only stare at his little brother in confusion. Why was Sam back, why wasn't he in his room cursing Dean's name to the rafters!

At Dean's silent shock, Sam, not looking a gift horse in the mouth, snatched the cigarette from Dean's hand. "You getting lung cancer, I can't handle," he said, as he took the few steps to the bathroom and with an angry toss, sent the cigarette into the commode before returning to stand over Dean. Reaching into his own pocket, Sam dropped a bag of peanut M&Ms on his brother's drawn up knees. "Stick with getting cavities."

Having gathered together his scattered thoughts, Dean accused, "Can't you do one thing I ask, Sam? One thing!"

"Sure," Sam, crouching down, let his eyes fall level with Dean's before he continued, "ask me to do anything but walk away from you and I'll do it, Dean. You want me to die for you, I will. You want me to kill for you, give me the gun. But what I **won't **do is leave you alone again. So don't ask me to." His eyes as resolute as Dean had ever seen them.

"If you won't leave, then I will," Dean growled back, turning to the side, a hand on the bed, he struggled to get his feet under him. But his body was listening to his demands as well as Sam was.

Sam's heart broke as Dean's strength faltered. Instantly Sam was at Dean's back, wrapping his arms around his brother, cushioning his fall, holding him against his chest. "Dean," he pleaded, his voice breaking on his brother's name, his head leaning against Dean's. "Don't do this. Don't punish me like this."

Hearing Sam in pain was Dean's Achilles heel, he didn't have it in him to turn a deaf ear to it now. "Sam, I'm not punishing you, I'm trying to protect you!"

"Protect me from what? From who?" Sam demanded, tightening his hold when Dean made a token struggle to be released.

"From me!" Dean shot back angrily, frustrated that his plan had been scattered to the four winds.

"From you!" Sam said in disbelief and exasperation, releasing Dean only to slip around him to face him, his hands latching onto Dean's arms to keep him in place. "What are you talking about Dean?"

Clenching his jaw, Dean looked away. He had said too much already.

Suddenly fear mixed with Sam's confusion and frustration. He gave Dean a shake, "Talk to me Dean," he demanded, feeling as if his brother was slipping away from him before his eyes. His hand shot out to grasp his brother's jaw and turned it forward, forcing Dean to once again face him. "I'm not going anywhere Dean. And neither are you. For once in your life you're going to open up to me."

Sam's stubbornness Dean had never doubted but now he knew, firsthand, what a formidable weapon it was to build a defense against. "Sam, let it go."

"No, not this time!" Sam replied. "There has never been a time I needed to be protected from you! Never, Dean. Never."

Suddenly the solution was so clear to Dean. The truth was the sharpest weapon he had, the best weapon to salvage this building disaster. The truth would set Sam free to walk away from him, without guilt or misplaced loyalty.

"I picked you, Sam," Dean confessed, his voice low but steady, his eyes holding Sam's.

Confusion hued Sam's reply, "Picked me for what, Dean?" as he let his hand drop from Dean's bruised jaw.

'_To die_,' sprang to Dean's mind but he needed to swallow three times before he could force his mouth open and even then the words wouldn't come.

Dean's raw vulnerability cut Sam to the core and he loosened his hold on his brother's arm. Abandoning his crouch, Sam settled onto the floor Indian style and soothed, "Just take your time, Dean. I'm not going anywhere."

"You should," Dean croaked, dropping his eyes to the floor.

Sam's barriers were not made to endure such gales of anguish from his seemingly invincible brother. It took Sam a few moments to check his own emotions enough to talk. "The Benders, they did something to you, didn't they?" his voice nearly breaking in anguish and guilt.

"I made the wrong choice, Sam," Dean's voice was broken, wretched as his head stayed lowered.

Bending his head in an attempt to see his brother's face, Sam gently pressed, "What choice, Dean?"

Bitter self hatred hued Dean's next words. "I thought you'd have a chance…that's all I could do for you. I screwed up, Sam." Dean's hands once again came up to bracket his bowed head. "I screwed up."

"How! By getting caught! Dean that wasn't your fault! I know I kidded you about the girl…"

Dean's words cut across Sam's refute, "You wouldn't have been there if it weren't for me." And Dean's head came up, his pain filled eyes lancing into Sam's very soul. "You'd be back at Stanford, with your girl, with your life intact."

"Dean, it's not your fault for the way things turned out. I don't blame you for Jess!" Sam's tone implored Dean to listen, to accept his words as truth.

"We're better off apart, Sam. You know that in your gut, same as me."

Before all Dean's words were out, Sam began shaking his head. "No! It's splitting up that nearly gets us killed…every time! The shape shifter, the truck, your electrocution, my kidnapping, the scarecrow, each time we split up, things go to hell."

"You were fine when I went to Burkinsville, safe."

"Safe! I almost lost my brother! Damn it Dean, what happens to you, affects me!"

"I told them to hunt you," Dean announced without forewarning, his eyes remaining steady on Sam, forcing himself to watch as the love Sam had for him winked out. Sam blinked at the change in topic but didn't react otherwise. "They were gonna put the poker to my eye if I didn't choose who they would hunt, you or Kathleen." As steady as he could, Dean revealed. "I chose you."

Sam rent the air with a curse and surged to his feet, his long legs eating up the room's length back and forth quickly.

"I…I thought I was giving you the best chance to survive, Sam," Dean stammered, wanting, needing Sam to know that what he had done was out of love. "You have to believe that. I didn't know they were gonna shoot you in your cell, I didn't know that! I know you can't forgive me…"

Having stumbled to a stop as his brother began stammering out his apology, Sam now quickly bent down, his hand again catching his brother's jaw and forcing his head up so the brothers' eyes met. "I'm not mad at you, Dean! I'm furious at those bastards! Who burned you? Was it the father or the sons?" a deadly edge to his voice, the dark depths of which Dean had never heard from Sam before.

"Didn't you hear me, Sam? I betrayed you," Dean growled.

"You stupid thick headed jerk, you didn't betray me!" Sam refuted with love in his eyes. "You gave me the best odds to survive! In or out of that cage."

Dean tilted his head, "You're not mad at me?" his voice breathless, Sam's absolution was too much to hope for, certainly more than he would ever deserve.

"Yeah I'm mad," Sam replied but his voice was light and a smile was fighting to turn up his lips. "You made me go through all this chick flick crap just to learn what I already knew." With that, Sam claimed a seat beside his brother. With his shoulder touching Dean's, he pulled his knees up to his chest, rested his back against the bed, his position mirroring his brother's as their eyes remained fixed on one another.

Raising a questioning eyebrow at his brother, Dean waited for Sam to complete his thought.

A wide smile lit up Sam's face. "You're still the big dumb hero of the story," he said, daring to snake his right hand out to ruffle his brother's spiked hair affectionately.

TBC (One more chapter to go!)

Thanks for reading!

Cheryl W.


	6. Chapter 6

Room to Breathe

By: Cheryl W.

Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural, Dean or Sam, nor am I making any profit from this story.

Authors Note: Well here it is, the last chapter. Sorry for the long wait and I hope it wraps things up nicely.

Chapter 6

"Hero!" Dean scoffed, not lifting his head from its resting place against the side of the mattress. "What kinda twisted story makes a hero out of the guy who let his brother get kidnapped and then chooses him to be the first contestant of a sick safari hunt?"

Perceiving that some of Dean's anguish had lessened, Sam answered lightly, his eyes never leaving his brother's. "Twisted stories are our specialty. And this one happened to require some unusual heroics from the older brother to save the hapless younger brother and the damsel in distress."

A smirk pulled onto Dean's pale, bruised face, "I don't think Kathleen would like being called the damsel in distress."

Sam laughed, "You're just upset that she didn't swoon in your arms and kiss her prince."

"She handcuffed her prince to her freakin' car!" indignation rang through Dean's reply but the light was returning to his eyes.

"Don't you mean carriage?" Sam countered, relieved to see the darkness diminishing in his brother's eyes.

Dean shot Sam a mock glare but soon they were laughing quietly. Turning their focus forward, to the horrendous wallpaper on the wall, the brothers, sitting on the floor side by side, fell into a silence of consensus. Mentioning Kathleen had unknowingly sparked the same thoughts to run through the brothers. When Kathleen had confessed to shooting Pa Bender, there had been no censure from either Winchester. How could they condemn her when they would have done the same had they not both walked away?

"Come on, I'll like to get some sleep tonight," Sam sighed, breaking the silence. He wanted to wrap his arms around his brother and haul him to his feet but common sense warned him that Dean's pride was bound to object to such babying. Instead, standing fluently, he offered his hand to the still seated Dean.

Tilting his head up to view Sam, Dean quipped, "I'm comfortable right here," making no move to take Sam's hand.

Unprepared for such a vulnerable response, Sam moved from one foot to the other before he found the right words, adopted the best tone. "Yeah, but if I got up in the middle of the night, I would end up tripping over you and breaking my neck," his tone light but his eyes worried even as his words conveyed to Dean that their two room separation was over. Bending over, Sam grabbed Dean's right hand where it lay limply in Dean's lap and gave it a squeeze. "Up."

"You're a real pain," Dean sighed before he struggled to get his feet under him as Sam pulled him off the floor.

Not giving Dean a chance to falter, Sam slipped his hand around Dean's side, bracing him. Gently he settled his brother back to sit on the mattress. It was then that he noticed that Dean was still wearing his jeans and button down shirt instead of his traditional sleep wear of shorts and a t-shirt. "You're still in your jeans?"

With a quirk of a raised eyebrow, Dean sallied, "No flies on you."

"What…"

Dean cut off his brother's words, "It's a little hard to change into clothing that's not in my bag. Don't tell me you left them back in that other motel."

Sam, happy to hear a good natured threat from his brother again, appeased, "Don't go postal. Your sacred shorts are in my bag."

"Your packing skills suck, Sammy."

Sam couldn't fight off a joyous smile at hearing "Sammy" come from Dean. The name bridging more of the gap their words had created between them.

"You think that's funny?" Dean challenged, his trade mark 'you're gonna get a whooping from big bother' threat in his eyes.  
"Hilarious. I'll go get your PJs so you can go night night," Sam replied, heading for the door only to spin around as he opened it. "Don't go getting into any bar fights while I'm gone."

"Tell me when you're gonna start being funny," Dean deadpanned, without turning around to see Sam smile before he left, purposely leaving the door cracked for easy reentry. Alone in the room, Dean couldn't keep the tired but satisfied smile from lighting up his pale features. Shaking his head at his brother's stubbornness, he winced as pain spiked through his skull. With a curse to the Benders, he cautiously inspected the bump on the back of his head with his right hand. A lump like that and no concussion, no blood, it was unfair how much his head hurt. Ruefully he knew tonight's dramatics had not helped.

When Sam walked back into the room, he saw Dean quickly drop his hand from his head. Putting his bag and laptop on the other bed, Sam perched behind Dean on the bed. "Let me take a look," he soothed, his fingers already gently inspecting the back of his brother's head. Finding the large lump without much effort, he felt Dean wince in pain. "You should have told me about this," his tone lanced more sorrow than reprimand as he parted his brother's short hair, praying that he wouldn't find blood.

His hands clenched into the bedspread, Dean countered, his voice rough with concealed pain, "I don't have a concussion. You checked, remember."

"Yeah, but that was when I thought the cut on your forehead was the worst abuse your fat head had seen," worry changing Sam's tone to frustration and censure. Coming off the bed he crossed over to his bag and began rummaging through it. "Smart thinking, going for drinks, Dean, mixing a head injury, and pain meds with alcohol."

"Don't forgot the bar fight," Dean tossed out, his tone one of humor instead of anger or defensiveness, causing Sam's eyes to fly to his.

Against his raging emotions, Sam found himself smiling, "You're such a jerk."

"Yeah, but I know how to take a lickin' and keep on tickin'," Dean boasted though his voice held a weariness Sam wasn't used to hearing.

Turning his focus back to his bag, Sam finally pulled out Dean's shorts. Coming to Dean's side, he taunted, "Alright Mr. Timex, here's your shorts."

Belligerently Dean yanked the shorts from his brother's hand. Then fortifying himself, he used his hands to help lever himself off the bed onto his feet. Instantly Sam gripped his arms tightly.

"Whoa. Where are you going?" Sam demanded, stepping closer to Dean, surprised that Dean had made it to his feet, equally not surprised that Dean needed his help to stay upright.

His eyes mere inches from Sam's, Dean growled his answer, "Bathroom. Do I need a hall pass or what?" growing more irritated by the second with his body's weakness.

Sam forced a bark of laughter from his tight chest, "Like you ever bothered with a hall pass." Slipping to Dean's side, his arm wrapped around his brother's waist, he put them both into motion, heading for the bathroom.

"Dude, let go," Dean protested, his right hand attempting to dislodge Sam's hold around his waist.

Sam, vividly remembering Dean's same response when they were searching for a seat in Roy's healing tent, clung more fiercely to his brother. It was only when they arrived at the bathroom's doorway that Sam relinquished his hold on Dean. Almost instantly, Sam wanted to reclaim his hold as he watched Dean's trembling hand shoot out to grip the doorframe to steady himself.

With measured steps, Dean gained the inside of the bathroom, shutting the door practically in Sam's face. For a change, Dean was glad the bathroom was small, needing him to only take one step forward to be able to sink down onto the closed toilet seat. Bowing his head, he closed his eyes and called out through the flimsy wooden door, "Stop standing at the door, Sam."

Angry at being caught worriedly hovering at the door, Sam stalked back to his bed. With a ruthless jerk, he opened the plastic bag with a "Steffy's Drug Store" logo on the side. Pulling out the items from the bag, the receipt fluttered out to land on the floor. Bending over to snatch it up, Sam caught sight of Dean's open bag with the Metallica t-shirt lying on top. '_Ah crap_.'

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By the time Dean had changed and stood by the sink to splash water on his face to wipe away the dried blood from his lips, he had broken out in a cold sweat. From bitter experience he knew he was close to passing out. The weakness angered him. Surely he had been injured more gravely than this and even these wounds had certainly hurt more fiercely when they occurred. It wasn't right that he felt worse right now than he had walking through the woods away from the hillbilly hunters. Of course then there had been the adrenaline rush, the need to appear strong for Sam, and the necessity of escaping the cops and FBI to keep his mind and body otherwise occupied.

Now all his hard earned control was slipping away. '_All you have to do it make it to the bed. What is that, ten steps? Twelve? Totally doable. Now move it,_' he demanded of himself as he reached for the doorknob. As fate would have it, the door opened in, necessitating him to take a step backwards to get the door open far enough for him to slip out. Forward motion he had geared himself for. Backwards motion had the room spinning.

Having nearly leaped to the bathroom doorway as the knob turned, Sam caught a glimpse of his paler than ever brother as the door started to open. Instantly Sam, with a cry of "Dean", pushed himself into the room and grabbed Dean as he began to sag. Settling Dean carefully back to sit on the closed toilet seat, he ordered breathlessly, "Put your head down," even as his hand gently slipped behind Dean's neck and guided Dean to bend over, putting his head between his knees.

Frantically, Sam yanked a washcloth from the rack, drenched it with cold water from the tub spigot and placed it on the back of Dean's neck. Opening his mouth to instruct his brother further, Dean's muffled words cut him off.

"Don't tell me how to breathe, Sam," Dean tried to instill some strength in his barbed comment.

Acting as if that exact instruction wasn't about to come from him, Sam replied, "You've been breathing for 26 years. I guess you know how it's done." Putting the back of his fingers against Dean's flushed cheek, then resting his palm across his brother's forehead, Sam sighed, "I don't think I have to tell you that your fever's worse."

"No, you don't," came Dean's defeated admission, his head bowed, his eyes still closed and making no move to shove his brother's touch away. Even when Sam tenderly brushed the washcloth over his face he made no objections.

Nothing terrified Sam more than a complacent Dean. He edged closer, allowing his brother's shoulder to rest on his chest. With clarity he knew it just wasn't the physical injuries that were taking a toll on Dean's strength. How many times could Dean play the hero and survive? How much blame could he heap on himself for events he wasn't responsible for? Where was the line he would draw to what lengths he would go to protect the people he loved?

"You don't always have to be the strong one, Dean," Sam softly said, placing the washcloth to the back of Dean's neck again.

"Sam, I'm sitting on the toilet, my head between my legs with you taking care of me like I'm four!" Dean railed back incredulously, starting to raise his head.

With gentle force, Sam pressed on the back of Dean's neck, forestalling his abandonment of his position. "Keep your head down, Dean," he murmured as if to a frightened child he had come to rescue. Obeying, Dean knew he should be enraged by the tone instead of comforted but his head hurt too badly for such subterfuge.

"You're the strongest person I know, Dean," Sam stated with pride in his voice, watching as Dean stiffened at his words. "Dad falters into a bottle for days, sometimes weeks on end. I ran off to college but you, you just stand and fight. Take a lousy hour of breathing room to drink a few shots, take a few puffs on a cigarette and then you get back in the game."

"Fighting is all I know," Dean's voice was as quiet, as open as Sam had ever heard it.

Sam shook his head, "No, all you know is how to save people. Me, dad, every stranger we meet who is in danger. You bleed for them. You would die to save them, to save Dad, to save me."

There was a sadness in Sam's tone, a sadness Dean interpreted as criticism. "What else should I do?" he asked, raising his head so his eyes met Sam's.

'_Live for me. Stay safe for me_.' Sam shook his head, blinked away the moisture in his eyes, "Nothing. I'm proud of you."

"But?" Dean pressed, knowing his brother too well to be thrown off.

"Just value your life like I do, Dean." Sam's voice nearly broke on the earnest plea then he dropped his gaze from Dean's.

In all honesty, Dean didn't _know_ the value Sam put on his life. Between the time apart, the time they spent arguing, the resentments that kept tearing them further apart how could he be certain Sam even _liked_ him. Like the saying went, you couldn't choose your family.

When silence continued to meet his plea, Sam's head flew up, afraid that Dean had taken a turn for the worst. He barely got a chance to see Dean's eyes before the elder Winchester dropped his gaze.

Clearing his throat, Dean murmured vaguely, "Yeah. Ok," and he shifted away from Sam.

The truth struck Sam hard. '_He doesn't know how important he is to me_!' He could tell by the confusion in his brother's green eyes, by the way he replied, by the barriers he was forging to guard against pain, pain that Sam alone could inflict. "I love you, Dean, don't you know that?" his voice cracking with emotions, with love, with the need for his brother to understand how deeply they were bound together.

"Sammy you don't have to .." Dean began, his voice a lower octave than usual, his eyes still avoiding Sam.

"I missed you, Dean," Sam confessed, the words finally earning him Dean's attention. A tear slipped down Sam's face. "I took your t-shirt with me to college…I …I just couldn't make it without something of yours." He gave a teary laugh, "Jess and I had one of our biggest arguments over that shirt. She was gonna just throw it in the washer and I reamed her out, saying it was one of a kind, that it was valuable that it had to be hand washed and hung inside out to dry so the decal wouldn't fade." He shook his head ruefully, and looked at the floor. "We talked it over and I told her it was yours, that it was all I had of you. She realized that I wore it when I was missing you the most, which was a hell of a lot of the time."

"Ah Sam," Dean choked out and pulled Sam into a hug, fighting not to break his own rules about crying.

Turning into the hug, Sam held tightly onto his brother, his chin on Dean's shoulder. "I never wanted what happened between Dad and me to come between us. But it just ….did. Seeing you while I was in college, bruised and battered from your latest hunt...hearing you talk about what you had done, who you had saved, never telling me how close you had come to dying on each job …it just hurt too badly Dean. Dad had cut me off, I couldn't go back to the hunt, couldn't be there for you. I just couldn't deal with knowing I wasn't there for you. I….I just thought it would be easier…"

"Not knowing, staying away," Dean finished, understanding in his tone as Sam pulled back from him, their eyes locked together.

"But it wasn't," Sam confessed, swiping away the tears in frustration he sank back on his hunches. "It was stupid and childish and it didn't work, Dean."

Holding his brother's dejected gaze, Dean reassured, "You forged your own path, Sam. There's nothing stupid or childish about that."

Sam shook his head in denial of the absolution Dean was offering him. "I wasn't there for you when you needed me, I didn't answer your call," his voice strained with guilt, with regret.

Intending to utter a glib comeback that would classify the instance as insignificant, as something he had barely remembered, Dean found the words would not come. He could not conjure up an act of levity, could not don a mask of indifference, not about this. In truth, this wound ran too deep, the abandonment too deliberate, the hurt too fresh even after so much time had passed. Instead he offered Sam what clemency he could. "I survived."

Sam had always received forgiveness from his brother like it was a spring eternal. No matter his offense, no matter his unworthiness, Dean had never withheld his love, his respect, his trust. Until now. Sam felt a cold fear grip his heart. Could he make amends for running away, for turning his back on his family, on Dean? "I won't let you down again, Dean, I swear," he vowed, his breathing loud in the tiled bathroom. Breathing that nearly faltered to a halt when Dean's eyes again rested on him, inspected him, assessed the truthfulness of his words. It was only Dean's small smile and the nod of his head that sent breath back into Sam's lungs, that slowed down the racing of his heart.

"I can be the strong one once in awhile, take over the burden of being the hero when you need a break," Sam offered tentatively, a tremulous smile on his face, needing Dean to know he would be there for him, that his love and respect for Dean weren't dependent on his brother's heroics or strength.

Touched by Sam's offer, Dean covered up his emotions with a cocky smile and light words. "It's a thankless job sometimes, Sammy, and the pay sucks."  
"I know." Sam smiled but it soon melted away. He could not disregard the other insults, taunts, he had hurled at Dean. "What I said about you not liking to be alone…"

Immediately, Dean shook his head, forcing a smirk onto his pale features. "The truth hurts, Sammy. But I can go it alone."

"I'm not forging any more paths without you, Dean," Sam promised quickly, disliking the resolve in his brother's face. "No matter what, I won't shut you out of my life again."

"Sounds like a threat to me," Dean sallied back, wanting to forsake the emotional edge he and Sam had been teetering on so precariously.

Sam snorted tiredly, "Jerk," causing Dean to smile cockily. Settling his back against the bathtub, Sam pointed menacingly at his brother. "Now swear to me you won't ever do that to me again."

"Do what?" Dean asked, an innocent eyebrow raised.

"Let's see," Sam drawled, as he began counting off the items on his fingers, "Stay away from me, push me away, almost die, get tortured to protect me! You should have picked me before they treated your shoulder like a hamburger, stupid."

Too happy by the bridged chasm between him and Sam, Dean didn't return the barb in kind but instead an easy smile accompanied his playful words, "You know multiple choice questions aren't my thing, Sam. I was still thinking when the cooking began."

"Next time think faster," Sam shot back, his frustration a façade Dean read like a album cover.

"This from the guy that takes forever to make his mind up what he wants to be: rock, paper or scissors," Dean mocked, the pain in his head lessening as he slipped into the easy banter with Sam.

"That was when I was seven," Sam defended, a weight lifting from his chest as he saw some of the color returning to Dean's bruised face.

Dean snorted, "A week ago it took you five minutes to decide what kinda ice cream you wanted."

"At least I don't get into fights wherever I go," Sam's voiced spiked into a reprimand.

"Hey, I didn't start that bar fight," Dean denied before a proud smile broke onto his face. "But boy did you clean house, Sammy."

"They were picking on my brother, what did you want me to do?" Sam quietly defended, dropped his eyes, embarrassed by his own words, bracing for Dean's teasing to begin. At receiving silence from Dean, Sam faced Dean again, surprised to see his brother looking caught off guard by his sentiment. Pushing onward, Sam accused, "And yes, you did start the fight, Dean, because you are a trouble magnet."

"It's the face, woman can't resist loving it," a wide boastful smile beamed across Dean's bruised face.

"And men can't resist punching it," Sam quipped back, fighting to keep his smile from emerging.

"Ha Ha," Dean muttered. "Now can we take this Hallmark moment out of the john?"

"My brother, so classy," Sam scoffed but his grip was gentle, yet firm as he helped maneuver Dean to his feet and the twosome began the slow trek to the beds.

"If anything happened to that shirt while you had it….."Dean breathed out his threat, needing a distraction to the toll their small jaunt was taking on him.

"Shirt's mine," Sam announced, feeling the way his brother's body trembled with each step.

"Nah ah," Dean retorted, another step closer to his bed.

"Yeah hah. Possession is 9/10th of the law," Sam contradicted, taking more of his brother's weight into his hold.

"I have the shirt," Dean insisted.

"You sure about that?" Sam asked, forcing a cocky smile to make an appearance on his worried features.

Halting in his tracks one step from the edge of the bed, Dean looked down to his bag and found the shirt was no longer there. Raising his gaze to Sam's bed, he immediately spied the shirt lying by his brother's open bag. "You're a thief!" he growled.

"Is that so, _Hector_," Sam taunted, relieved to finally be able to settle Dean onto his bed.

"Hey, we only use the credit cards to survive," Dean defended, wishing the room would stop spinning.

Seeing that whatever color Dean had gained was once again absent, Sam crouched down beside Dean. With gentle, deft fingers, Sam began unbuttoning Dean's shirt and slid it from his shoulders to reveal the bandaged burn. Needing to distract himself, as well as Dean, from the horror of the burned skin he revealed behind the sterile pad, Sam replied, his voice quiet, set to soothe even as his words were devised to provoke. "Yeah well, I only took the shirt to survive. You think I liked looking like a stoner, wearing a shirt supporting some weak talented rock band."

Even knowing his brother's tactics, Dean couldn't help responding with some of his usual fire, even as his eyes stayed fixed on the sight of his burned flesh. "Oh, tell me you didn't just insult Metallica?"

Sporting a taunting smile, Sam looked up at Dean and their eyes caught. "Actually, I was really trying to insult you."

"That's it. We're going to have a Metallica marathon," Dean swore, warily watching as Sam grabbed a new tube of burn cream and a packet of sterile pads from the other bed.

"Driver picks the music," Sam volleyed back, "and by the looks of you, you aren't going to be driving any time soon," the concern in his eyes dismantling any presumed glee to his prediction. Knowing he could not delay the pain any longer, his eyes flickered to Dean's with the unspoken question. With Dean's nod of acceptance, Sam, steadying himself, gently began to apply the burn cream, wincing himself when Dean stiffened at the initial contact. There was a tightness in Sam's voice as he continued his distraction, "But you are in luck because I bought a cassette of Barry Manilow at the last yard sale you just had to stop at."

"No way are you playing that crap in my car!" Dean hissed before he clenched his teeth as Sam's skillful ministrations focused on the worst of the burn.

"You'll start singing along with Barry before you know it," Sam predicted, his eyes flickering up to monitor Dean's ashen face then back to the task at hand. In relief, he completed his doctor routine by covered the burn with a new sterile pad. "Alright, let's get you into bed," he soothed, pulling down the covers and drawing up Dean's legs unto the bed as the older man lay down.

"Sorry, Sammy, but you aren't the right gender," Dean joked, but his eyes were closed tightly as he allowed Sam to settle him back onto the bed. Suddenly his limbs felt too heavy to move, ever again.

As quietly as he could, Sam readied himself for bed but he hesitated by his brother's bed, watching Dean's chest rise and fall, seeing the lines of pain easing on his face. "Stop staring pervert," Dean warned, without opening his eyes. Sam chuckled, turned off the lights and climbed into his bed but sleep would not come.

"You want to talk about your nightmare?" Sam offered quietly as he lay on his side, watching Dean's face in the moonlight.

"No," came Dean's low, unyielding reply and Sam knew enough to let the subject drop.

Silence fell in the room for a few minutes before Sam stammered, his voice striving to be composed, "When you …you know..need some room to breathe again, just tell me. I'll back off…," but an unflappable edge entered his tone as he continued, "as long as you promise not to go too far or get into too much trouble."

"I'm breathing just fine right now, Sammy," Dean reassured. Taking a deep breath, he thought stale, mildewy air had never felt so good coursing through his lungs._ 'I'm glad you're here with me, Sammy.'_

"Good," Sam forcefully agreed as if his brother had given the correct answer, the only answer to a question. For the first time since his kidnapping, Sam felt the tension leave him and a long absent sense of peace settled on his soul. '_I'm glad I'm here with you, Dean.' _"Glad one of us can breathe because I'm choking on that awful smelling burn cream of yours."

Dean's head rolled to the left and his eyes glared at Sam, whose smile he could not miss even in the moonlit room. Simultaneously, the brothers broke into soft laughter that drifted through the room, dispelling the dark clouds that had choked the air between them for far too long.

The End

A thousand thank yous to my wonderful reviewers! You allowed me the courage to write the boys as I saw them and tell the story I wanted to tell. And you didn't make me feel like I was writing alone in a void. That's a real blessing to me.

And thank you to everyone who read this story!

Love to hear your thoughts!

Have a wonderful day!

Cheryl W.


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